


Talk

by BlueRobinWrites



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Pining, Realizations, Sexual Tension, fantasies, lip biting, lusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRobinWrites/pseuds/BlueRobinWrites
Summary: Cormoran is having some...thoughts.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 11
Kudos: 88





	Talk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pools_of_venetianblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/gifts).



> Inspired by [Talk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCCtiK7KlSo&list=UUdOcBpu5O2V0JhFFs9k-Ouw&index=15) by Hozier.
> 
> And by the incredible gif set my dear @pools_of_venetian_blue made ages ago. Find that [here](https://bluerobinwrites.tumblr.com/post/630560329946021888/pools-of-venetianblue-i-wont-deny-ive-got-in).

_Imagine being loved by me_

He’d lost track of the number of times he’d looked at her and wondered what would happen if he just walked up to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her. 

But he always held back. 

Deciding it would be better if she had choice in the matter.

He couldn’t stop the fantasies though. 

All the ways he could tell her.

Show her. 

Maybe just over dinner some night, since they were together so often now, he’d have enough to drink to touch her, take her hand. 

Make it really obvious that he  _ wanted _ to be that person for her. 

He imagined her plump lips parting slightly, as he touched her, twining his fingers through hers and holding them there. Her tongue darting out to wet them, slightly, unnoticed by her, but driving him completely mad to kiss her and finally feel those lips against his for more than a brief and accidental brush. 

She was endlessly fascinating to him and had always been so, from the moment she’d carried a coffee service he’d known he didn’t own into the office they now shared while he’d talked to a murderer.

She’d been so composed and calm pouring the coffee for Bristow and acting for all the world as though she’d worked for him for years instead of a mere fifteen minutes. 

He’d gotten a glimpse of her talents that day, and those talents had been confirmed within the next few days as she’d quickly assimilated all of the information they discovered in the case, and had even, unexpectedly, offered her thoughts and insights. 

And the fascination that had started that week had only deepened with time. 

The accents, the empathy, the quicksilver mind that realized things he knew he’d never have thought of.   
The figure that captured his eye, though he’d gotten good at not lingering on it. 

But he yearned for the day he could look at her to his leisure. 

And that yearning led to him picturing her, tangled in his sheets, like a living Renaissance painting. Her Titian hair, spilling across the white of his pillow case, and surely, his brain interjected, her skin would be dotted with freckles that would stand out against that unrelieved white. He pictured her with a sheet wrapped over her hips, her back bared to his lips, her luminous skin begging him to trail them down and move the sheet. 

He shook himself out of this fantasy and back into the present. Seated in their office, the object of his fantasies sitting across from him. 

He realized the sound of her voice was echoing in his head as though she’d just spoken.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was...lost in thought. What’d you say?” he asked, prompting an exasperated smile from her. 

God her smile. 

The way it lit her eyes when she gave it to him. 

He loved that. 

Her red lips curving, just for him.

“I asked if you were hungry. I thought we could take these down the pub,” she gestured to the notes and case folders in front of them.

“I’m for dinner, but let's leave these here. I could do with a break from it. Let it marinate a little, eh?”

“Oh. Sure. OK.” 

Her eyes dropped, hands shuffling papers back into order.

Always tidy was his Robin. 

And suddenly, his hand was reaching out, covering hers on top of the files.

Her head snapped up, eyes darting to his own. 

“Just leave them be,” he said, holding her eyes with his, and not troubling to bank the burning heat in his. Recklessly letting her see everything he felt for once. 

Her voice was barely audible as she said, “‘Kay,” and those wide silvery blue eyes kindled with what he was sure was the beginning of an answering heat. 

His hand was still laying over hers, and as he stood he squeezed it gently, nodding to the coat rack, “Let’s get your jacket and head out. My treat tonight.”

He released her, and walked to the coat rack, taking down her black peacoat and holding it for her with a silent invitation. 

As she slid her arms into it, he bent slightly, lips just shy of her ear and whispered, “Allow me,” as he slid his hands under her hair, fingers brushing the nape of her neck, as he gently extricated it from the collar and let it slip free. 

She stood, not moving, barely breathing, and he allowed his eyes to roam the small bits of her face he could see. 

The curve of a flushed cheek. 

From his attention?

Her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, as she waited for what might happen next.

She was biting her bottom lip. 

He had to force himself not to turn her around right then and suck that plumpness in between his own. 

Better to wait.

Let her decide. 

She lifted a hand and brushed her hair behind her ear, then glanced over her shoulder at him, as though unsure of how to proceed.

He just watched. 

Eyebrow lifted.

Waited. 

Felt the corner of his mouth curve up slowly. 

“Are you ready?” she finally asked, brushing at her hair again. 

He loved this nervous gesture of hers. 

Wanted to do it himself.

Maybe later. 

He patted his blazer, feeling for his wallet, phone, and fags and confirmed, “Yep,” then gestured for her to go ahead of him. 

“How’s Jack doing with football this season?” she asked, as they started down the stairs. 

“He’s in the starting lineup finally.”

She looked back, smiling widely, “Oh that’s great! Lucy and Greg must be well pleased.”

“They are.”

“And you, as well,” she added hastily, with another glance back at him. 

“I am. He’s worked hard and he deserves the chance. I’m supposed to take him to buy new cleats at the weekend.”

“That’s so sweet of you Cormoran. He’ll love that,” she stopped at the bottom, turned to face him, leaning against the bannister as he reached the bottom.

He shrugged. 

“He’s easy to dote on.”

“I imagine. He’s such a lovely boy.”

He hummed his agreement as he held the outside door for her.

As she passed, he caught a whiff of her scent, the same one he’d stood and watched her select on her birthday. 

And, as he did every time he smelled it, he remembered the way she’d stood beside him, offering the strips of paper for him to choose between. 

The way his heart had thudded and beat slightly faster at the idea of this scent mingling with her skin. 

He never smelled that scent without seeing the way her eyes had sparkled as she’d turned and thrown her arms around him, kissing his cheek and laughing quietly in his ear after he’d told her he was taking her to The Ritz for champagne. 

And now he knew he’d never think of that evening without also remembering the humming tension in the office the night he’d accidentally elbowed her and she’d snapped that he should take her to The Ritz instead of A&E. 

How the whiskey had urged him to put a name to how he felt about her.

How her face had been shadowed, and yet he’d known every expression that crossed it. 

How her profile had been limned with the light from the windows as she’d sipped her whiskey and listened to his ramblings about his childhood. 

He wondered how he’d waited so long. 

How had it taken him four more months to gather the courage to take the next step?

She paused after passing through the door, knowing him well enough to know that he’d light a fag for their walk, and as he did so, blowing the exhale away from her, he offered his arm to her, for the first time. 

She took it. 

Leaned against him so that the back of his arm was pressed softly to her breast. 

And they began their walk toward the pub.

He shortened his steps to accommodate her slightly smaller strides and enjoyed the feeling of her body so close to his. 

The way her hair blew around her face, sometimes catching on the sleeve of his coat, pleased him immensely.

Of all the walks they’d taken together, they’d never walked together this way. 

This closely.

They talked of nothing as they walked. 

Just small talk, office talk, Pat’s latest grousing and Barclay’s story about his little one fingerpainting chocolate syrup into the carpet. 

And when, after they arrived at the pub, he joined her at the table, carrying a glass of her usual white and a pint of his usual beer, he allowed his knee to rest against hers under the table. 

And felt her knee press into his as she shifted ever so slightly closer to the table, leaning forward. 

The entire time they ate and drank his head was filled with her. 

The curve of her breast under her jumper recalling how it had felt against his arm as they’d walked here. 

The way she toyed with her necklace, dragging the pendant back and forth on the chain as she listened to him, occasionally pressing the chain against her lower lip, urging him to bite it and test it’s firmness for himself. 

The way her fingers brushed his as he brought her back a second glass of wine when he’d gone to order their dinner. 

And the way her eyes rarely left his face. 

She was beautiful. 

Rose gold and cream.

Her delight as she laughed warmed him. 

She was everything. 

He wanted to tell her everything. 

He wanted to tell her how he felt about her, with words, with his hands, his mouth. 

He wanted to claim her and have her claim him back. 

He knew now, that this time, he’d found someone he actually  _ could _ envision the rest of his life with. 

Waking to her head on his chest, her leg thrown over his, her breasts warm against his side. 

Seeing her fresh from the shower, her hair wet, shoulders pink, face flushed. 

Watching her dress each morning. 

Brush her hair.

He shifted in his seat and hastily turned his mind away from those images. 

Working with her was no chore. 

Chatting with her was his favorite thing to do, her facile mind working much the way his did, only faster and sharper at times. 

She was a bloody marvel and sometimes he wondered if she’d been made just for him. 

Set in his path deliberately by some higher power he barely believed in anymore. 

The magnitude of what he felt for her just kept growing the longer he knew her. 

From his initial interest in her thought process and keen intellect, growing into an absolute certainty that she was trustworthy and everything he’d never known he’d needed as a partner. 

Then, the days he’d been without her, the lack of her, the vacuum she’d left in the office. 

No lingering scent of flowers, soothing his mind. 

No clinking of teaspoon against mug as she brewed him the best tea he’d ever had made for him. 

The way her arms had clutched him, pulling him close, pressing her body against his as she’d worn her wedding dress, a new ring freshly joined to the sapphire one he’d been so angry to see back on her finger after she’d left her arsehole of a boyfriend the first time. 

He’d realized a few weeks ago, what he’d tried to hide from, tried to ignore, tried to pretend wasn’t happening. 

He’d fallen slowly, inexorably, irrevocably in love with her. 

And he’d fought it. 

Unwilling to risk his independence. 

Unwilling to risk her friendship, which had become the most treasured one in his life, long before he’d realized it. 

Unwilling to chance the gamble they’d both taken joining their names as partners.

But then, she’d yelled at him last February. 

Angry in a way he’d never seen her before. 

And she’d been right. 

About all of it. 

For the first time he’d found himself changing, not because she’d asked him to. 

Not because she’d demanded it. 

She hadn’t demanded anything. 

He’d started changing before he’d even realized he was doing it.

Simply because she’d held a mirror up to his face that night, and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. 

He hadn’t liked knowing that’s what  _ she’d _ been seeing. 

He hadn’t liked thinking she didn’t know he cared deeply for her. 

That she was the first person he thought of on waking and the last person he thought of as he fell asleep. 

That her voice had been the  _ one _ thing that had gotten him through those months during Joans illness. 

That her steadfast support and friendship, for nearly five years now, had been the strongest and most positive relationship he’d ever had, with any woman, or anyone, in his life. 

As he watched her in the dim light of the pub, laughing at something Tom, the barman, called to her as she passed on her way to the loo, he knew this was the night. 

He’d take that last step tonight.

He didn’t have a plan but he trusted he’d know the moment when he saw it.


End file.
